His words brought peace and the mirage of a far-off rest, that soothed again the little half-born doubt.

"Yes," she said. "It is better to think so. Then we need think of no other change."

"There is no other possible," he answered, gently pressing the shoulder upon which his hand was resting. "We have not waited and believed, and trusted and loved, for seven years, to wake at last--face to face as we are to-day--and to find that we have trusted vainly and loved two shadows, I yours, and you mine, to find at the great moment of all that we are not ourselves, the selves we knew, but others of like pa.s.sions but of less endurance. Have we, beloved? And if we could love, and trust, and believe without each other, each alone, is it not all the more sure that we shall be unchanging together? It must be so. The whole is greater than its parts, two loves together are greater and stronger than each could be of itself. The strength of two strands close twined together is more than twice the strength of each."

She said nothing. By merest chance he had said words that had waked the doubt again, so that it grew a little and took a firmer hold in her unwilling heart. To love a shadow, he had said, to wake and find self not self at all. That was what might come, would come, must come, sooner or later, said the doubt. What matter where, or when, or how? The question came again, vaguely, faintly as a mere memory, but confidently as though knowing its own answer. Had she not rested in his arms, and felt his kisses and heard his voice? What matter how, indeed? It matters greatly, said the growing doubt, rearing its head and finding speech at last. It matters greatly, it said, for love lies not alone in voice, and kiss, and gentle touch, but in things more enduring, which to endure must be sound and whole and not cankered to the core by a living lie.

Then came the old reckless reasoning again: Am I not I? Is he not he? Do I not love him with my whole strength? Does he not love this very self of mine, here as it is, my head upon his shoulder, my hand within his hand? And if he once loved another, have I not her place, to have and hold, that I may be loved in her stead? Go, said the doubt, growing black and strong; go, for you are nothing to him but a figure in his dream, disguised in the lines of one he really loved and loves; go quickly, before it is too late, before that real Beatrice comes and wakes him and drives you out of the kingdom you usurp.

But she knew it was only a doubt, and had it been the truth, and had Beatrice's foot been on the threshold, she would not have been driven away by fear. But the fight had begun.

"Speak to me, dear," she said. "I must hear your voice--it makes me know that it is all real."

"How the minutes fly!" he exclaimed, smoothing her hair with his hand.

"It seems to me that I was but just speaking when you spoke."

"It seems so long--" She checked herself, wondering whether an hour had pa.s.sed or but a second.

Though love be swifter than the fleeting hours, doubt can outrun a lifetime in one beating of the heart.

"Then how divinely long it all may seem," he answered. "But can we not begin to think, and to make plans for to-morrow, and the next day, and for the years before us? That will make more time for us, for with the present we shall have the future, too. No--that is foolish again. And yet it is so hard to say which I would have. Shall the moment linger because it is so sweet? Or shall it be gone quickly, because the next is to be sweeter still? Love, where is your father?"

Unorna started. The question was suggested, perhaps, by his inclination to speak of what was to be done, but it fell suddenly upon her ears, as a peal of thunder when the sky has no clouds. Must she lie now, or break the spell? One word, at least, she could yet speak with truth.

"Dead."

"Dead!" the Wanderer repeated, thoughtfully and with a faint surprise.

"Is it long ago, beloved?" he asked presently, in a subdued tone as though fearing to wake some painful memory.

"Yes," she answered. The great doubt was taking her heart in its strong hands now and tearing it, and twisting it.

"And whose house is this in which I have found you, darling? Was it his?"

"It is mine," Unorna said.

How long would he ask questions to which she could find true answers?

What question would come next? There were so many he might ask and few to which she could reply so truthfully even in that narrow sense of truth which found its only meaning in a whim of chance. But for a moment he asked nothing more.

"Not mine," she said. "It is yours. You cannot take me and yet call anything mine."

"Ours, then, beloved. What does it matter? So he died long ago--poor man! And yet, it seems but a little while since some one told me--but that was a mistake, of course. He did not know. How many years may it be, dear one? I see you still wear mourning for him."

"No--that was but a fancy--to-day. He died--he died more than two years ago."

She bent her head. It was but a poor attempt at truth, a miserable lying truth to deceive herself with, but it seemed better than to lie the whole truth outright, and say that her father--Beatrice's father--had been dead but just a week. The blood burned in her face. Brave natures, good and bad alike, hate falsehood, not for its wickedness, perhaps, but for its cowardice. She could do things as bad, far worse. She could lay her hand upon the forehead of a sleeping man and inspire in him a deep, unchangeable belief in something utterly untrue; but now, as it was, she was ashamed and hid her face.

"It is strange," he said, "how little men know of each other's lives or deaths. They told me he was alive last year. But it has hurt you to speak of it. Forgive me, dear, it was thoughtless of me."

He tried to lift her head, but she held it obstinately down.

"Have I pained you, Beatrice?" he asked, forgetting to call her by the other name that was so new to him.

"No--oh, no!" she exclaimed without looking up.

"What is it then?"

"Nothing--it is nothing--no, I will not look at you--I am ashamed." That at least was true.

"Ashamed, dear heart! Of what?"

He had seen her face in spite of herself. Lie, or lose all, said a voice within.

"Ashamed of being glad that--that I am free," she stammered, struggling on the very verge of the precipice.

"You may be glad of that, and yet be very sorry he is dead," the Wanderer said, stroking her hair.

It was true, and seemed quite simple. She wondered that she had not thought of that. Yet she felt that the man she loved, in all his n.o.bility and honesty, was playing the tempter to her, though he could not know it. Deeper and deeper she sank, yet ever more conscious that she was sinking. Before him she felt no longer as loving woman to loving man--she was beginning to feel as a guilty prisoner before his judge.

He thought to turn the subject to a lighter strain. By chance he glanced at his own hand.

"Do you know this ring?" he asked, holding it before her, with a smile.

"Indeed, I know it," she answered, trembling again.

"You gave it to me, love, do you remember? And I gave you a likeness of myself, because you asked for it, though I would rather have given you something better. Have you it still?"

She was silent. Something was rising in her throat. Then she choked it down.

"I had it in my hand last night," she said in a breaking voice. True, once more.

"What is it, darling? Are you crying? This is no day for tears."

"I little thought that I should have yourself to-day," she tried to say.

Then the tears came, tears of shame, big, hot, slow. They fell upon his hand. She was weeping for joy, he thought. What else could any man think in such a case? He drew her to him, and pressed her cheek with his hand as her head nestled on his shoulder.

"When you put this ring on my finger, dear--so long ago----"

She sobbed aloud.

"No, darling--no, dear heart," he said, comforting her, "you must not cry--that long ago is over now and gone for ever. Do you remember that day, sweetheart, in the broad spring sun upon the terrace among the lemon trees. No, dear--your tears hurt me always, even when they are shed in happiness--no, dear, no. Rest there, let me dry your dear eyes--so and so. Again? For ever, if you will. While you have tears, I have kisses to dry them--it was so then, on that very day. I can remember. I can see it all--and you. You have not changed, love, in all those years, more than a blossom changes in one hour of a summer's day!

You took this ring and put it on my finger. Do you remember what I said?

I know the very words. I promised you--it needed no promise either--that it should never leave its place until you took it back--and you--how well I remember your face--you said that you would take it from my hand some day, when all was well, when you should be free to give me another in its stead, and to take one in return. I have kept my word, beloved.

Keep yours--I have brought you back the ring. Take it, sweetheart. It is heavy with the burden of lonely years. Take it and give me that other which I claim."

She did not speak, for she was fighting down the choking sobs, struggling to keep back the burning drops that scalded her cheeks, striving to gather strength for the weight of a greater shame. Lie, or lose all, the voice said.

Very slowly she raised her head. She knew that his hand was close to hers, held there that she might fulfil Beatrice's promise. Was she not free? Could she not give him what he asked? No matter how--she tried to say it to herself and could not. She felt his breath upon her hair. He was waiting. If she did not act soon or speak he would wonder what held her back--wonder--suspicion next and then? She put out her hand to touch his fingers, half blinded, groping as though she could not see. He made it easy for her. He fancied she was trembling, as she was weeping, with the joy of it all.